Your eyes, they shine so bright, I wanna save that light
by Doritos1996
Summary: They've seen heaven and they've seen hell, but if you asked them now, they'd say that all they want to look at is each other. Extra Wincest scenes, episode by episode. WARNING: Incest.
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1: Completion (Pilot).**_

It didn't take Dean very long to find out where Sam lived.

When his little brother walked out that door, with the look of an angry puppy and a curse at his father, he hadn't looked back to say goodbye to Dean. Dean didn't take it personally – Sammy would be back, he wouldn't be gone that long; it was just anger that led him on leaving and when that faded, his stubbornness would do, too, and he'd come back.

It took Dean a while to realize that was never gonna happen.

Once that realization hit, it was harder for Dean to pretend all was okay. He'd never admit it to dad, but he felt a constant _something_ on his gut. Something that scratched and scratched on the walls of his body, gnawing and pressing with the continuous reminder that _'Sammy isn't here, he'll never be here again and he's happy – without you.'_

Somehow, when Sammy was still there, no matter the crappy motels or the shitty food or the fact that dad was gone for days at a time, Dean felt at home. It took him a while to deal with the fact that, when Sam left, he took home with him, and that there was nowhere Dean belonged to.

Part of him, of course, was happy his brother had gotten out, happy that there was a chance for Sam to live normal and go to college and be satisfied with his life. Part of him was happy that Sam wouldn't have to skip meals and sleep in order to hunt whatever lurked in the darkness and the chaos, happy that he could only get injured by cutting himself with sheets of paper while studying.

But, in the night, when all was quiet and Dean was in between the state of losing himself to sleep and being awake, he couldn't help but disregard the above logical reasoning and miss his brother's body next to him, miss the weight that used to make the bed – _their_ bed – sink. And then an aching so intense would spread up inside his lungs and chest. He'd stop thinking to catch his breath and suddenly it'd be 4 a.m. and his life would be tumbling down, collapsing on itself like stray falling stars and he'd come face-to-face with the realization that there's actually no light, just absence of darkness, and he'd sink deeper in his pain, but not deep enough not to dial his brother's number and beg for him to come back.

But, of course, Sammy never picked up the phone. Which was a good thing, Dean supposed, because if he did, then Dean would make a fool out of himself by either saying too much or by saying nothing at all.

It took him a while, but Dean learnt to sleep through the pain at nights and not bother his brother.

But Dad was gone now, and he knew – Dean knew – that there was more to the sudden disappearance than the incognito of the hunt. Dean felt it in the way his bones shuddered; Dad was in danger. And, damn, if there was a thing that could take _Dad_ down, then Dean would certainly not be able to deal with it alone. He could call Bobby or any other hunter that had ever met John Winchester but this was Dad, _their_ Dad, and finding him was as much of Sam's job as it was Dean's. Or that's what he told himself, at least.

He looked at the building and his first thought was that Sam didn't do _that_ bad. The place looked neat, organized and it kind of smelt like jasmine. He considered knocking on the door, but once Sam saw who it was, he'd probably not let him in. Besides, Dean wasn't a man that really conformed to social procedure. So, he spotted the most convenient window on the back, climbed up the ladder that led to it and pulled out his picklock to work his magic. The window's lock loosened and he pushed it up. He had to squeeze through it, and the steel-made frame pressed hard onto his ribs. He was almost in and – he fell on the floor, face down with a huge thud.

_Fuck._

If his brother's reflexes were as good as they used to be, then Dean had approximately twenty seconds until he was found. Standing up with easiness, he tried to orientate himself in the dark and, locating the kitchen, moved towards it.

He didn't have the chance to see if there were any beers in the fridge. When Sam grabbed his shoulder – his palm warm and soft and steady – Dean sighed in relief, because for a split second, something clicked into place, and he was suddenly reminded of the satisfaction he used to get when a piece fitted perfectly in empty space on those _tetris_ games he used to play when he was little. Completion.

And suddenly this became a game – it became fight, a brawl, like the ones he and Sammy used to have over the silliest of things. He knocked his brother's arm away and aimed a hit at him and Sam ducked. The _bastard_; sloppy, but with good reflexes. By the time Dean managed to pin him to the floor, a gentle hand on his neck and another around his wrist, fingers tenderly grasping his flesh, Sam's bangs were stuck to his forehead with sweat.

"Easy there, tiger."

Sam breathed hard and Dean could see sudden recognition in the way his stance relaxed under his touch, in the way his hand lost its strain under his hold, in the way the fingers of the hand Dean's was holding were automatically and reflexively caressing as much skin of Dean's wrist as they could.

"Dean?"

Dean's whole body shuddered and, for a brief moment, he wanted to beg Sammy to say his name again and again and again, until his ears got tired of hearing the way his brother's voice caressed it. But the moment passed and Dean realized how much of a chick he'd be if he had resorted to begging. So he let out a laugh instead – not that laughing wasn't what he also felt like doing at the moment 'cause, damn, this was Sammy and he was on the floor, panting, while Dean had won another one, just like he always did.

"You scared the crap out of me!"

"That's 'cause you're outta practice."

He knew what Sam's reaction would be and he had been waiting for it the moment his brother's eyes filled with recognition. If there was anything Sam couldn't refuse, that was a challenge and Dean knew his brother too well. He wasn't surprised when he found himself on the floor, with Sam on top of him, a smug look on his face.

"Or not," he murmured.

Sam's body relaxed and loosened around Dean. A tender hand tapped on his arm twice, in a gentle gesture, and then he crawled away. And Dean already missed the warmth of his body, but he wasn't gonna let his brother see that, so he was gonna settle for something more manly.

"Geroff me." He was a bit too late saying it, and Sam probably already understood. But he said it anyway.

Sam rolled on his feet and stretched a hand to yank Dean up, and Dean just realized how much he'd missed exactly that. Being pulled on his feet when he fell down – in more ways than the literal one.

As Sammy asked what the hell he was doing there, Dean grabbed the front of his brother's shirt and kind of tugged him towards him, in a familiar move, but Sam planted his feet on the floor and didn't move a budge. So, Dean dropped his hands by his side and hid his disappointment behind a '_I was looking for a beer_.'

Sam asked again, more firmly this time, not buying any of his brother's nonchalant tone, and Dean nodded. He planned on going easy with this, have a beer with Sam, a light talk, catch up with him and, damn, getting used to him just being so close and _then_ telling him. But Sam wouldn't have any of that.

"Okay. Alright. We gotta talk."

"Uh, the phone?"

Dean's mouth clenched, his jaw standing out. He hated the way Sam's eyes looked at him all smartly and smugly because, fuck, he had used the phone and he'd be damned if Sammy would have ever answered it, even just to say "fuck off". Trying not to think of all those times that he had desperately clung to his cell, trying to take in as much of the comfort that his brother's recorded voicemail provided, he answered without missing a bit. "If I'd'a called, would you have picked up?"

Sam's mouth twitched in a way that told Dean he had seen all those missed calls from his brother. But, before he could reply, the light turned on, and his brother's face come into full view, eyes as grey as rain and hair shaggy from sleep and Dean found himself taking a deep breath and turning around just because the image was too overwhelming.

A girl, blonde and pretty and barely dressed, stood in the doorway, looking at the sight before her with confusion.

"Jess. Hey, Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica."

_Of_ _course_, Dean thought with a dull pain in his chest. His face hardened for the briefest of seconds, before he realized it and settled for a grin. _C'mon, Winchester, play it tough like you always do._

So, instead of accusing Sam and reminding him of a promise a long time ago – _you, only you, always you_ – he started flirting. He knew that Sam could probably see right through him, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to be the one bitching about _it_. What he and Sam had – whatever _it_ was – it was a long time ago, before he went to Stanford, and it ended with Sam going out that door.

For Sam, that is.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Dreams (Wendigo)**_

Sam was shaking again. Even with his eyes on the road, and the sun barely lightening up the space inside the Impala, Dean could practically feel his brother's vibrations. His breath was hitched, coming out in gasping pants, and he was sweating. Dean couldn't blame him – he wished the reason of Sammy's nightmares was stupid enough for Dean to blame him and make fun of him and think of a dozens of jokes that could apply to his situation. But, truth is, the reason wasn't stupid. It was hard and merciless and real.

For the past week, he and Sam stayed at Stanford. It was a common agreement, unspoken but strong and hard as steel in both's minds. This thing – whatever it was – had been there and had left a burning house and a dead girl behind as trail, and if there was one thing John Winchester's boys knew how to do is pick up leads and kill the thing that created them in the first place.

But whatever had killed Mom and Jess was long gone, even before that fire, and Dean knew it from the start. And Sam did too – deep inside, behind the determined set of his jaw and the hard eyes that wouldn't show past his 'I'm fine, Dean, stop fretting all over me's, he knew. Which is why they gave up on Stanford, a week later.

Dean wouldn't have left so soon, but Dad was missing and there was a nagging feeling in the back of his head that kept telling him that this and The Thing showing up again after twenty freaking years was no coincidence. Beside, even though Sam would never admit it, Dean was sure that Stanford was full of memories for him – he saw it in the way his eyes unfocused whenever they'd pass by a restaurant familiar to him, in the way he'd lower his head every time he'd catch sight of the pity gaze of a neighbor or friend, in the way he turned of his phone so that he wouldn't have to listen to anyone's condolences. He was burning inside. That reason alone could make Dean leave Stanford in a heartbeat.

With coordinates in their hands - a sign that Dad must still be out there - Dean didn't feel like he was moving blindly anymore.

Sammy thrashed in his seat, sweaty bangs sticking to his face, breath coming out fast and hard. Dean's eyes snapped at him in worry and he thought about waking him up, but the kid barely had any sleep in the last week. And even though he was now sleeping uneasily, his brain was still fueling much better than if he were awake. And Dean hated the way Sam kept it all bottled up inside, keeping a stone-face and taking everything in with the attitude of a marble-made statue. It gave him a new determination, sure, but he wasn't dealing with it. Because Dean knew that deep down he felt and grieved and hurt and wanted to scream. At least, when he was sleeping he had that opportunity of letting it all out.

When Sammy woke up a few minutes later, sucking in air in a strangled cry that sounded a lot like "Jess!", Dean saved all the witted jokes he could have made under other circumstances and looked at him, concern clear in his eyes.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Dean didn't believe it. And the worst of all was that he couldn't deal with it, either. His brother was not fine, he was hurting, and there was nothing Dean could do or say to make it stop, or evaporate or, at least, fade away for a couple of hours.

Dean had wanted Sammy back to him. But he'd give anything, anything for his little brother to be back at Stanford, with Jessica alive, and unaware if he and Dad were still breathing.

They crushed at the closest motel they could find after the whole Wendigo deal was over. They chose the room closest to the fire-exit. It was kind of humid inside, but they had dealt with crappier lodgings before, so they didn't really care.

Dean had expected his brother to fall asleep immediately, but Sam sat on the table, rubbed his eyes and turned on his laptop. Dean let out an exasperated sigh (fucking research) reached out, and snapped it close.

Sam's grey eyes shot up on his brother's green ones. "What the hell, Dean?"

Dean grabbed his brother gently by the shirt and dragged him off the chair with one hand, patting his shoulder with the other one. "You hit the bed and get some sleep. You had enough for one day."

Sam protested, but didn't resist as Dean gave him a push towards the bed. "I'm not made out of glass, Dean! I can take hunting just fine."

"I don't doubt that, Sammy." Dean looked at his brother steadily and saw something click inside his grey eyes, something close to understatement, shame and maybe guilt. But the comeback that was ready to roll of his tongue was swallowed back and Dean was glad 'cause he wouldn't have been able to stand any more of his 'I'm fine' shit. "You hit the bed, you hear me?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded solemnly. "Yeah, I hear you."

Dean nodded back and, after seeing Sam collapse on top of the bed on his stomach, breathing heavily, checked the room alone; made sure the windows and door were sealed and that there were salt-lines where they needed them to be. By the time he looked back at his brother, Sammy was sleeping soundly – for the moment. He couldn't help but notice how tired he looked, how the skin under his eyes was smudged with exhaustion and how his lips were slightly paler. But there was a new lightness to the way his body lay sprawled on top of the bed, which, Dean knew, originated from the fact that he had saved people today, from the realization that he was still capable of preventing destruction instead of planting it wherever his feet hit.

Dean took off Sam's shoes, spread his own comforter over him, since Sam was sleeping heavily on top of his and there was absolutely no chance Dean would lift a 6'4" guy without waking him up. Trying hard not to think of the fact that he and Sam used to share a bed before he went off to college, Dean fell on the second bed, fully-clothed, and tried to get some sleep.

That night, when Sam woke up from his nightmare, it was Dean's name he screamed. And Dean could, at least, deal with that.

Next morning, none of them mentioned how Dean had ended up on Sam's bed, frantically whispering "it's okay, Sammy, I'm here, see?"


	3. Chapter 3

_**Drowning (Dead In the Water)**_

Dean remembers the last time they had been at a lake.

It was December and Dad had picked up a case in Washburn, Wisconsin. Three people dying, every three years, right beside the lake - bodies found smashed and mangled and freezing. Dean couldn't have been more than sixteen - Sammy was barely twelve - but he remembered Dad saying that it sounded like their kind of thing.

It turned out that it was, as they found out the hard way. A ghost tractor haunted the muddy shore, the real one rusty and sunk at the bottom of the lake. It had chased all three of them along the bank, lights flashing threateningly and engine roaring, and they had run like their lives were depending on it 'cause, fuck, they were. But the thing had been fast and also did Dean mention that it was _a freaking ghost tractor _and it was closing up on them? Sometime between the swearing and the chasing and the falling down, they had jumped right into the water - black and glimmering under the night - to avoid its running over them.

Dean still remembers the disorientation - the feeling of being sucked down into freezing flames. It had been dark and black and cold and Dean couldn't tell the surface from the bottom. Damn, he couldn't tell if that cold thing he felt was water inside his lungs or the air he had sucked before diving. When he had come up, minutes later, panting and gasping for breath, Dad was already crawling at the lakeside, coughing out moisture. Alone.

Dean hadn't thought about it twice. "_Sammy_!"

It hadn't occured to him that, if the darkness of the lake was bad for him, then the weight of the water must have been worse for Sam - skinny and small, battling for breath in the black abyss. He had dived right back in, eyes open in the water but unable to see anything, and he had groped blindly, trying to remember where Sam had fallen, where he had hit the water, where Dean had seen him last. Last - no, Dean didn't want to think about that. He had swam deeper and deeper, the water and blackness becoming denser around him and enclosing him in a suffocating embrace. Slowly and painfully, the panic and fear had gripped at him, squeezing his lungs tighter than the lack of oxygen.

Then his eyes had caught something - something green and blinking, breaking the nothingness with sharpness. Sam's watch. If Dean had been able to breathe, he'd have let out a huge sigh of relief right then. Muscles complaining with the strain, he had moved forward quickly, almost slipping his shoes out in the process. He had taken hold of his brother, his left hand on his wrist and his right one around his chest, savoring the contact, and had brought him out of the water, not at all withheld by the extra weight (_no_ - not _dead _weight, cause, _fuck_, this was Sammy and he _couldn't _be dead).

Sam's head rolled back onto Dean's shoulder as they had emerged, and Dean had felt his gasp. His mind - afraid and confused and panicked - had processed it too fucking slowly. Sam gasped. Sam was breathing. Sam was alive. _Alive_.

He had brought him at the wooden pier, lying him down at the mud. His blond hair had dripped water onto his brother's face, but Sam's eyes had remained closed, unaware of the water trailing down on them. Dean had breathed hard, his right hand over Sammy's cheek, caressing and patting the wetness there, the other one gently resting and groping on his neck, all the while muttering his name. ("Sammy, hey, hey, Sam, Sam, Sam.") Sam's blood had suddenly beat against his trembling fingers, fast and strong. Pulse - there had been a pulse.

Dean had smiled in welcome relief. "Sam, hey, Sammy. C'mon, man. _Sam_."

Sam had coughed water - cold and dirty - all over Dean's shirt, but Dean didn't mind, cause Sam's eyes were open. He had held him up, waiting until all the blackness was out of his brother's lungs, and then he had put both hands on Sam's cheeks and had pushed him back softly, getting a good look at his brother's face, eyes as grey as rain and wet hair sticking to his forehead.

Sam's eyes locked onto Dean's with familiar guilt. "Oh God, Dean, I'm so sorry."

Dean didn't care that Sam had almost drowned - he could have punched the idiot right in the face for being...well, Sam. He had rolled his eyes with a smile, his fingers holding tighter onto Sam's temples, thumbs caressing the hair away from his eyes, faces too close that their foreheads were almost touching. "Shut up."

Dean had done something then that had seemed and felt normal - almost automatic and reflexive. He had leaned in and had kissed Sam. Not a lips-to-lips kiss, but not a peck on the cheek either. It was simple, just a brush of his wet lips against the corner of Sam's mouth - almost at his chin. He could taste the water on him, the musky smell of gunpowder, the mud he had dropped him onto, but under it all, he could taste something sweet and salty and sweaty that he will always identify as Sam. And, this time, Dean was the one drowning.

Sam had smiled, and he had scooted his face closer to Dean's, burying his nose onto his brother's cheek and then Dad had been there, a firm and painful hand pushing Dean back and another Sam. He had shouted at Dean about many things ("why did you let Sam out of your sight, why didn't you find him sooner, why did you find him when he should be learning to take care of himself, 'cause you won't always be there, and why, why did you do that thing?") and Dean had listened.

He hadn't understood why Dad had gotten so angry just because he had shown some brotherly affection, but he hadn't cared either, because Sam's eyes were open now and they were watching him with openess, gratitude clear in his eyes.

So, now, when Dean sees Sam crawling out of the lake (a grown man that can take care of himself, even though Dean will always be there), coughing out water, shaggy hair clinging to his forehead and eyes as grey as rain, he only remembers that night and he runs to him. He kneels right to where Sam is lying on his back, arms spread at his sides and chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. His hands skim all over his brother, fumbling and hovering and lingering over him - over his arms, his temples, his neck and chest - automatically checking for injuries and cuts and anything - anything - to indicate that Sam's not okay. Sam in conscious (he can tell so from the slightly bitchy face he's making because of Dean's prodding fingers) but his eyelids are closed and suddenly Dean is too aware of the black smudges around his brother's eyes, of how thin his skin has gotten, of how fucking tired he looks. And he's also aware of how the skinny, small boy that almost drowned in that lake about ten years ago has grown into this giant and strong and beautiful and stubborn son of a bitch.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam rasps, eyes still closed. "Yeah, the kid?"

"The kid's gonna be fine," Dean replies and sighs with a small laugh. "Gotta be honest, I thought I'd have to save your ass again. Didn't know you could swim."

Sam doesn't open his eyes, but his mouth loses its tightness as he smiles broadly and punches his fist right into Dean's stomach in a familiar gesture, shoving him back slightly. "Screw you."

Dean laughs and does something then that seems and feels normal, automatic and reflexive. He leans down and places a kiss at the corner of Sam's lips, wet skin against wet skin, chins brushing, hands pushing hair back, fingers brushing temples gently and carefully. Sam pushes his face in the small space between Dean's nose and cheek, sighing deeply. It is simple, but under it all, Dean can still taste Sam and, at that moment, he doesn't care that there's a mother a few feet away, probably watching, or that Dad may come to push them apart now - though Dean will still not understand why - but he doesn't care because Dean has grown up too along with Sam and, _this _time, he can push back.


	4. Chapter 4

_**In and Out (Phantom Traveller)**_

Dean fucking hates flying. He hates it with every fiber of his being. Screw getting to places on time, Dean could cross any distance within the time-limit with his car even if he had to stop for gas, thank you very much, because, _damn_, the Impala is definitely not hovering at 2,000ft and it is definitely not shaking its ass like a belly-dancer during a fucking earthquake. He's one hundred percent sure that _this _can't, _can't _be normal.

Dean isn't afraid, of course. No - he's just... concerned and healthily worried about something that could go wrong. It is an automatic reaction, just like the adrenaline before a hunt. This isn't _fear_; this is precaution.

Except that the plane is shaking again and Dean can practically feel the seat under him bounce and the ground (no - not real, actual, safe ground, just the belly of a fucking airplane) slip under his feet and he can almost feel the air whoosing under it and he bites onto his fist to keep from screaming.

Yeah, maybe he is j_ustatinylittlebit _afraid.

He can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes. "Dean."

Dean rests his head back and grips the edge of his seat so hard that his knuckles turn white."Don't you _Dean _me, dude, okay, I can't fucking help it!"

"Just. Just breath it through, okay?"

Dean looks at the way his chest moves rapidly up and down and glares at Sam. "Oh, thanks, Sam, how didn't I think of _that_?"

And then Sam's hands are on him, a palm spread on his chest, just over his heart, and another one sliding down, over the fingers that are gripping on the seat, and unclasp them gently and Dean is one hundred percent sure that this isn't helping him breathe easier. Dean trembles and shudders and blames it - falsely - on the plane's (non-existent, for now) turbulences.

Sam leans down, forehead pressed against Dean's temple, nose nuzzling the corner of Dean's jawline, lips just over the pulse beating faster than it is supposed to on his neck. The palm spread over his chest pushes in gently and Dean can feel his brother's wet lips on the side of his face as he whispers "I_n. Out. In. Out. In. Out._" and frantically tries to follow the rhythm of his voice.

It must have worked, at some point, because Dean can sense Sam smiling against his skin, can almost hear the dimples popping on the sides cheeks. He doesn't feel that dizzy anymore, but Sam is still whispering in his ear.

"That's right. Easy now. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out."

"Had to be a plane," Dean murmurs sleepily, pushing his face closer to Sam's, cheeks rubbing. "Couldn't be a fucking bicycle."

Sam chuckles softly - the sound is comforitng and welcoming and relieving in Dean's ears. He can feel the warm air coming out of his brother's lips brushing over the skin of his neck and he lets out a deep breath. He breathes normally now, not at all lightheaded, but Sam doesn't let go of his hands or move his palm away from his chest as he murmurs in Dean's ear. He keeps nuzzling the sharp jawline near his ear, lips moving with whispered words along his pulse and Dean keeps pressing himself closer to him.

All in all, Dean thinks, flying isn't _that _bad.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Enough (Bloody Mary)_**

Sam is sure that he won't be able to calmly look at a mirror again without seeing his eyes bleed out. He had forgotten how hard hunting actually was, how there's a side of it that affects and shakes you up so bad that it deprives you of sleep and of little, simple habits, such as looking at your reflection in the mirror.

Dean insists that you can't bring the job back home like that. He says that just holding onto the memories can kill you. But Sam has seen him waking up in the night, bolting up, sweating and clasping the knife under his pillow so hard that his knuckles turn white; he has seen his eyes swipe the room in the dark and his breathing getting hitched, before he realizes that it was just a nightmare and he falls back on the pillow. He pretends he doesn't see though, 'cause it makes Dean feel better.

Sam rinses his mouth in an attempt to get rid of the taste of cheap motel toothpaste and wipes at his face with the blue handtowel, careful not to look at the mirror. When he gets out of the bathroom, Dean is already in bed. Their bed, once again, as it was automatically and unspokenly decided when Sam couldn't get any sleep because of the nightmares. It had seemed like the only solution, both to his and his brother's, from what he could tell, mind, when Sam woke up and the name he shouted wasn't _Jess_, but _Dean_. He doesn't remember much from that dream or from that night - he only remembers that the fear and the pain had been more intense than before, that breathing had suddenly seemed much more difficult, as if he was trying to suck in air with a palm over his nose and mouth, that he wanted to hold onto Dean so hard and so tightly that his muscles would complain with the strain.

Dean was there, of course (_he always is_, Sam thinks) and he had known what to do. Sam didn't say anything when Dean automatically climbed on Sam's bed the next night. And the next. And the next.

Dean isn't sleeping now. His eyes are open and they stare at the light-blue wall ahead, though Sam is sure that the way the bathroom door creaked was enough to alert him that he was coming. Rubbing his neck in an a vain attempt to work out a crick, Sam crawls onto bed, right behind Dean. He slithers his left arm under Dean, between him and the bed, and drapes his right one over his ribs, burying his face in the small space between Dean's shoulder-blades. His brother smells of soap and faint gunpowder and expensive hair product and Dean.

Dean relaxes under Sam's body and presses his back closer to his chest, fits his head in the space between Sam's neck and the pillow under it. This position is familiar since they were kids. Sam remembers with a small smile how it used to be the other way around, until he got too tall for Dean to cuddle. _Cuddle _- yeah, Dean would never admit _that_.

Sam closes his eyes and feels himself drift into somewhere that's all feathers and Dean. Sam knows there's a Bloody Mary hiding in there, somewhere behind those feathers, but he also knows that if he breaths in deeply, filling his lungs with Dean, she won't appear anytime soon.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean rasps in a small voice that Sam wouldn't hear if it weren't for how tense he is.

"Mhm?" Sam is too tired to move his lips right now.

"How you feelin'?"

Sam would roll his eyes, if they were open. Part of him thinks it's nice and reassuring that Dean worries over him like that, but the little brother in him screams in his head loudly, because Sam is a big boy now and he can take care of himself. He wakes himself up enough to mutter his reply. "For the hundredth time, Dean, I'm fine."

There's a moment of silence, one that makes Sam think he's gotten rid of Dean. Until-

"Hey, Sam?"

Sam can feel the conversation coming, though he knows it's not like Dean to talk. Since they were little, it was always Sam that tried to put everything into words and tried to make Dean do the same. His brother keeps everything so tightly shut inside that Sam is afraid that the cork that bottles him up might break and everything will burst through like water from a dam. Sam doesn't feel like talking tonight, though - he only feels like sleeping - but Dean looks as if he wants to say something important and Sam is always happy enough to see his big brother struggle with words.

"Yeah?"

"Some stuff. They - they just happen, you know? You can't always be there and you can't always stop 'em, no matter what. And blaming yourself, that won't do you any good. It won't bring anyone back."

Sam almost smiles at the irony because Dean is hardly the one to give this advice. Not when he always finds a way to make everything his fault. Damn, Sam could get stung by a bee and Dean would still find a way to blame himself for it.

"I know you have secrets, man, and you can keep 'em. You don't have to tell me anything and I won't make you. I just. I'm here to listen whenever you want to talk, okay?"

Sam can feel his throat constrict with emotion and his eyes watering and he wonders how Dean can turn from an insensitive bastard to a tear-jerker in less than five minutes. Sam buries himself deeper into Dean's back, feeling the warmth radiating under his brother's shirt.

"Okay." He wishes he could say more, but he knows that that's enough for Dean.

It's enough for both of them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Wanted (Skin)**

Dean doesn't want to think about it - his face on the news, the extra danger that now hangs over their heads, the police like a wolf on their back. Now, monsters and ghosts - those are things he can deal with. Things known and familiar. But humans? Those are creatures Dean will never understand and, no matter what he says, he realizes how much harder being charged with murder - no, _murders_ - makes things.

He can't help but recognize the funny side of it all, of course. He's always on the run, anyway. Might as well let a few blue and blinking sirens join the ride and enjoy eating his dust as they chase him behind the Impala.

Sam doesn't bitch about it - not yet, anyway. Dean thinks there's a Conversation coming though, of the ones that his little brother can't get enough of. He sees it in the way Sam stares out of the window with his brow furrowed and with the expression that makes the skin around his eyes wrinkled and sad - Dean just wants to make it go away.

It's night when they finally decide that they've put enough distance between them and the town behind them in order to be safe from any police guest appearances for the night. The motel they find is small and incospicuous, almost goes unnoticed as it lies hidden behind some not-at-all-taken-care-of trees at the side of the road. The _VACANCY_ neon sigh that blinks irrythmically, casting red light on the cement underneath, misses an A.

Dean is careful to park the car on the parking lot behind the building and makes sure it's not easily perceived by the road. He knows it's pointless - the police will find him if they try hard enough - but, hey, a little precaution never hurt anyone.

A bell rings softly as they enter from the front door with their arms brushing, as usual. A middle-aged man with a huge belly lies sprawled on a chair, which looks as if it can hardly sustain his weight, behind a counter. Dean's eyes automatically snap to the TV the man is watching and, judging from the way Sam's muscles tense against him, Dean realizes that his brother noticed too.

"Please, tell me he's watching porn and not the news."

"There's a tv," Sam mutters softly, as though he didn't hear Dean. "Try not to show too much of your face."

Dean's face scrunches up. "How am I supposed to do _that_?"

Sam steps in front of Dean in an attempt to hide as much of him as possible. Dean almost buries his face between his brother's broad shoulder-blades and hooks his fingers in the loops of Sam's jeans, staying as close as possible. Sam shudders against him and leaves Dean wondering why _he_ shudders back.

"How can I help you?" The clerk asks, shoving aside his half-eaten donut and running a hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to get rid of the sugar that's staining his lips.

"A room for two, please," Sam replies kindly, resting a hand on the counter casually.

The man's eyes narrow in confusion as he tilts his head around and then they widen as he starts to realize there are two people standing in front of him. Dean can almost hear the gears working in the man's brain as he slowly processes the image before him. His face freezes for a second before it goes back to a forced smile. Dean is almost sure that the man has seen him on the news and is calling the police the minute they enter the room. But as he hands Sam a key, the clerk says harshly: "No kings left. Just queens."

Didn't recognize Dean as a murderous criminal wanted by the police then. No, just another homophobic dick.

Dean can't see Sam but he can practically hear the bitch face he's making.

"Oh. Oh, that's alright, we're. Uh. We're not..." he trails off, probably noticing how vain the attempt of explaining that the person clinging to his back like a baby monkey is his brother would be. "Yeah, whatever, thank you."

Dean awkwardly sticks to Sam's back, duffel bag bouncing on his own shoulder, and chuckles as they try to find room number 4. They're used to people making assumptions about them being gay (a motel owner had once said that she found it _too cute that they're so clingy and hyperaware of each other's position in the room_ - and Dean had laughed 'cause _what the actual fuck_) but there is something about this and the police being on your tracks that makes the situation even funnier.

The corridor is empty as Sam almost drags Dean towards the room.

"No kings left, my ass," Dean comments and feels Sam's body shaking as he lets out a huffed laugh.

Their room is small and crammed, but at least it looks clean and has a window to escape from if needed. The fire exit isn't that far, either - two more ways of getting out if they needed to.

"I call dibs on the first shower!" Dean says as soon as he feels the door closing behind him.

Sam groans but Dean doesn't care. He untangles himself from his brother's warm body and heads for the bathroom.

He stays in the shower for what feels like hours. He stands under the spray of water, head tilted up, eyes closed, and lets the cold drops trail down his neck and back, caress his face. He lets it pool in the cavities between his eye-sockets and his cheekbones, lets the pressure of it push on his eyelids and wishes this would be enough for the images behind his closed eyes to be washed away.

He dries up messily and uncarefully, letting small amounts of water reside in the space between his sharp bones, and comes out of the bathroom in an old pair of sweatpants. Sam has already put salt lines around every exit - door and window both - and is lying on the bed on his back, shirtless. Dean lets his eyes linger on the way his brother's collarbones stand out, on the way the muscles on his stomach clench and unclench as he breathes in and out. He catches his breath. Wonders why. Doesn't want to think about it, so he doesn't.

When his eyes travel to his brother's face, he notices the familiar way in which his lips are pressed, how his jawlines twitch dramatically.

Dean sighs internally and uncoils the towel from where it's resting around his neck. He throws it on the nearest chair, and falls onto bed on his stomach next to Sam. Pillows his head on his crossed arms and watches his brother ignore him, watches him drop his eyes and look away.

Sam's neck has purple finger-shaped bruises left by the shapeshifter in Dean's form. Bruises that Dean's hands would match perfectly. Dean raises his head in order to move his arm and brush the marks on his brother's neck lightly. Sam winces. Dean winces too and puts his hand under his head again.

Dean waits but Sam doesn't start a Conversation. He needs an initiative then and Dean wants anything but to Talk. But he knows Sam needs to get things off his chest, knows he needs to talk things out or he'll burst. It's in the kid's nature, Dean knows. It's what he's made of. So, Dean does what Sam wants - always what Sam wants.

He flicks Sam's ear with his index finger, before placing his arm under his head again. Sam shakes his head in a late attempt to pull his ear out of his brother's reach.

"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine," Dean murmurs. "Why the long face?"

Sam doesn't answer.

"Oh, c'mon, Sam, I know your face. What is it?"

Sam's jaw twitches. "You never told me." His voice is small and rough, a whisper.

Dean stares, his mouth slightly open, doe eyes widened. "Never told you what?"

"That you felt this way."

Dean wills his brain to understand but he's left blank. "Dude, you drunk?"

Sam glances at Dean only to glare and then goes back to not looking at him. Meanwhile, Dean's mind has started catching up.

"Is this about the job we finished earlier?" Dean asks. Sam presses his lips more tightly. "Did that shapeshifter say something while I was unconscious? Sam?" Dean tilts his head in an attempt to catch his brother's eyes. "Is that it? For fuck's sake, Sam, _look_ at me."

Sam cranes his neck and looks at Dean with sad eyes. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"_For what?_ C'mon, man, you gotta help me, I'm trying to understand here."

"I just. I never realized how much I put on your shoulders when I left, you know. The shapeshifter was right. You had dreams, too, Dean, but you sacrificed everything. For me. For Dad. And what that thing said, about how you think you'll end up alone-"

Dean had heard enough. Because if there was one thing Sam couldn't know about him, that was _it_. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! That thing was just screwing with you, Sam. It wasn't me, alright, it just tried to mess with your mind!"

"It _was_ you, Dean! I mean, it was downloading your thoughts and everything!"

"Okay, whatever, what's the point you're trying to make here?"

Sam looks at him with those puppy eyes that make Dean want to melt into a pool and swallows. "Just that I'm sorry for leaving like that. I'm sorry you didn't. And just. You're not a freak, okay. You're my brother. And I'll never leave you alone."

Dean is left speechless. He feels his throat constrict and he tries to cough slightly to push away the lump that has started forming on the walls of his gullet. He wants to look away, but Sam's grey eyes draw him in, sucking in everything but the two of them like a black hole, and he's left breathless and unable to move. He wants to tell Sam that he's grateful, that he better not leave him alone, that he better not go away again. He wants to tell Sam that, _pfft, nah, the shapeshifter just didn't know what it was talking about, it was just playing with you._

But all that came out was, "Dude, you sure you're not drunk or something?" Dean's voice was rough and small, his tone too unsuitable for the sentence to come out as funny, and his half-smile was a bit dazed and forced, but it was the best he could do.

Sam gives him a lopsided smile, probably able to see right through Dean as if he is transparent and, satisfied that he managed to say whatever he wanted to say and make his big brother see, pushes Dean on his back. Dean turns mechanically and allows Sam to bury his head under his jaw, in the crook of Dean's neck, between his chin and his collarbone. Sam drapes his left arm over Dean chest, hugging him tightly, and sighs deeply. Dean feels his brother's lips move against the still-wet skin of his neck and something pleasant rises inside him, starting from his stomach, travelling up and exploding inside his chest, in the place where his heart is. Dean raises a hand and strokes Sam's brown hair lightly, feeling them soft and messy between his fingertips, his arm brushing against his brother's bare back as he does so.

"Maybe," Sam breaths against Dean's collarbone, his lips moving against it, and Dean shudders involuntarily.

A moment passes like this - it could be minutes, it could be hours or days. Dean doesn't care. All he wants is to breath in as much of Sam as possible, to just let himself drown in his brother's words, in the reassuring thought that, maybe, just maybe, Sam won't break the promise he's just made. Maybe, just maybe, Dean's not the freak the back of his mind thinks he is. Because if someone as good and as precious as Sam is willing to be with him, then Dean can't be that bad. It's just not possible. Yeah, definitely not saying any of these out loud.

Except for one thing.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice is a rough whisper, a murmur lost as it was uttered in Sam's hair. "You know this goes both ways, right?" _You know I'll never leave you alone._

Dean can feel Sam's temple spasm slightly against his collarbone as he swallows. There's a pause, heavy with unspoken words.

"Yeah," Sam rasps. "Yeah, I know."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Anchor (Hookman)**

Sam gives Lori a last, pained smile in goodbye, holds his injured shoulder and walks back to the car without a word, where he knows Dean is waiting for him.

The space inside Impala feels good and safe; the familiar smell of leather and sweat and gunpowder washes over Sam and makes him a little lighter inside, a little more reassured. Dean's presence helps, too, Sam suspects _(knows)_.

The seat under him loyally supports his weight and Sam lets out a sigh as he all but falls down on it. From the rearview mirror, he can see Lori watching. From the side of his eye, he can see Dean watching, too, with what he knows is a conflicted and concerned and sorry look.

Sam can't bear to look at either of them.

"We could stay," is all Dean says, his voice soft and familiar and almost nonchalant, if it weren't for the way it slightly cracked near the end.

Sam chances a glance at Dean, at the way his green eyes - flashing colorfully under the ambulance and police-car lights - stare at him in apprehension and in guilt, as if this is his fault. Sam knows his brother, of course. Knows that Dean always finds a way to blame himself and, though he's tried, he somehow can't shake that assumption out of Dean's head.

Dean looks back, almost hopefully, his eyes almost begging for Sam to hold onto that anchor - Lori - he just found and pull himself out of his drowning darkness. But there's another part in his eyes, the part that had so desperately clung to the "_we_" in the sentence. It is tiny and almost invinsible, but Sam is trained in studying his brother and he sees it. Dean is scared. Scared that Sam will say '_yes_' and '_without_ _you_' and will leave him alone.

He shakes his head, making sure that the motion is profound and clear and sure, because he means it.

He immediately feels Dean relaxing next to him. He sees his shoulders lower as they lose their tension, sees the tightness around his lips and eyes vanish into smooth skin. His brother shakes his head in disappointment as he looks at Lori through the mirror, but Sam knows better. Dean lies to himself without realizing, but he can't lie to Sam.

As the Impala roars into life, leaving the town behind it, and Dean keeps a hand on the wheel, another one behind his brother's head, knuckles lightly brushing the nape of his neck and hair, Sam makes sure to lean against Dean's touch. It helps. A lot.

"You, uh, you wanna pick the music?" Dean asks, his voice tight, as though he knows he's gonna regret what he's asking.

Sam turns and stares at his brother in surprise, grey eyes widened and brow furrowed. Suddenly, affection flows inside him. Strong and intense, it explodes in his chest and he almost feels his eyes watering and, fuck, how on earth does Dean _do that_? As he reaches out to the radio, head low to hide the tears threatening to fall, a thought crosses his mind, making his insides feel as light as feathers.

No matter what Dean thinks, Sam has already found his anchor.

.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Lies(Bugs)**

Dean is ready to enjoy his second helping of barbeque when the realtor - Lynda whats-her-name - approaches him with dynamic strides that make Dean a bit uncomfortable. She sits right next to him and smiles kindly and Dean wants anything but to hear all about the qualities each house has to offer. So, he takes a huge bite out of his burger and pretends to be too absorbed in his food to talk, which isn't too difficult 'cause, _damn_, this tastes good.

"So, how long have you two been together?" When Lyna asks, her tone isn't intrusive or offensive - it's practical, as if she's trying to make amends with her client, get to his good side.

For a moment, Dean finds himself confused. But then, he sees Lynda's eyes flicker to where Sam is talking with Larry and comprehension dawns on him.

Dean doesn't know what's he's most amused with - the fact that bugs have turned into serial killer machines, or that everyone just assumes he's fucking his brother.

He goes with the latter.

He swallows and looks at Sam. The sky is covered with clouds that threaten the earth with rain, and it makes his brother's eyes look much greyer than usual. A fiery silver. Even from this distance, Dean can see how vibrant their color is - can almost count the small, green marks that dot the place around his pupils - and he feels his heart miss a beat, for some reason. Probably because of the awkward question Lynda asks...

...right?

Sam is laughing now to something Larry says and is running a hand through his hair. Dean tries to look away - he really does - but Sam, as if sensing his brother starring, cranes his neck (tentons flexing and standing out, muscles working) and looks at him and when Dean replies to Lynda, his eyes are still glued to his brother. "Almost our whole life, really."

"Looks like he has you wrapped all around his little finger," Lynda guesses with a small laugh and Dean can't find it in himself to get offended or argue.

"Yeah," he answers automatically, doe eyes widened as they still remain nailed on his brother, mouth slightly open, "He does, the little bastard."

It's a lie, of course - Dean never does what Sam wants, _he is_ the big brother dammit - but so is everything else he has said today, so what the hell.

Lynda smiles in response and, seeing the small smirk that plays on the edges of Dean's lips, finds her cue to start talking. "I should mention that all apartments have steam-shower, which couples are sure to enjoy-"

And this is, fortunately, where Sam comes in, patting Dean's shoulder and leaving Lynda hanging mid-sentence.

"You finished?" He gestures towards the half-eaten burger that Dean is still clasping gingerly between his fingers. "We gotta go."

Dean looks up - _God_, Sammy's eyes are so clear and quiet today, like the sea just before a storm - and nods absent-mindedly, letting his burger drop onto his plate mechanically, because, _fuck_, have Sammy's eyes always been that magnetic?

He stands up, hypnotized by Sam's glance like a little bird by its predator. And then he freezes. Because Sam's right hand is now in his back-pocket, spread above his ass, and his left one is on his chest.

And, _oh_, it's on.

He rests his head on Sam's right shoulder, feeling his brother's arm slither on his back as he buries his hand deeper in Dean's pocket, and sighs. "Sure thing, sugar lips."

Lynda stares - her kind smile and proffesional tone vanished - and Dean finds it too hard to say goodbye when Sam is groping on his ass like that. So, he just waves and turns around, wrapping an arm around Sam's waist, grasping a handful of his brother's jacket, as they walk back to the car.

Little lies like that never hurt anyone, anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Placate (Home)**

Missouri doesn't need her psychic abilities to know that there's more going on between those two boys than just brotherly love.

Their whole body is just screaming it out. She sees it in the way they sit at her waiting room, arms brushing lightly as the big Winchester, Dean, flips through a magazine without really reading it. She sees it in the way their legs are intertwined under their seats. She sees it in the way they follow her into the next room with their shoulders touching - touching, always touching, always too hyperaware of each other's position in the room - and slump onto her couch in synchronization, still not losing contact.

She sees it. She just can't quite put her finger on it.

Later, when she puts her own pouch of herbs into the wall and hears Dean shouting his brother's name, she rushes down to the second floor in panic. Finds both of them kneeling on the floor, Sam gasping wretchedly for breath on Dean's shoulder, air coming out in pants on his neck, while Dean has a hanfdul of his brother's shirt and a handful of his hair. Sam sucks in lungfuls of air, as his brother watches him with eyes that have gone black with panic. Dean's face is buried into Sam's cheek as he whispers placatingly into it, his chest glued to Sam's as they're both breathing, and Missouri only needs to catch a few words to understand.

"C'mon, breathe it through, little brother. Follow my lead, okay? C'mon, Sammy, c'mon."

Dean's fingers slide up from Sam's back to rest on his cheekbone and they trace the sharp line there so tenderly and reverently.

"That's right, Sammy. C'mon."

His voice is cracking and strained, as if Dean puts too much effort into getting the words sound so light. Missouri can tell that it is on the edge of being drowned out with held back sobs and, suddenly, she knows. She wonders how she didn't see it from the start.

Those boys are in love.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Barred (Asylum)**

Dean doesn't talk on their way back. He just stares ahead, his hands clasping on the wheel so hard that his knuckles have turned white. He plays it smooth, as if nothing has happened, but Sam can see the way the skin around his lips is stretched and tight and how his green eyes are now flat and hard - he has barred himself inside.

Sam doesn't blame him for feeling angry and betrayed. Damn, he feels like he has betrayed _himself_, too, what with the things he uttered out and the fact that he freaking tried to kill his own brother. He knows that he meant none of the words he spoke, knows that Ellicott screwed around with his head. But he also knows that Ellicott couldn't have planted the anger inside him. He just found the seed and watered it until it grew into a tree so tall that it could have split both Sam and Dean in two.

Sam already had the spark in him and Ellicott just added the wood and oil and watched until it blazed him up.

And, damn, Sam feels guilty as hell. He watches his brother and he feels his insides coil and uncoil, the pain leaving him breathless as it claws on his chest. He wants to scream because, obviously, there's something wrong with him. He's always the one going astray, always the one leaving the path and stubborny making his wayward way through the messy jungle that flanks it, so maybe it's just _him_.

"_Dean_," he rasps again, fucking pleads really. He knows it's pointless - Dean won't listen, he never listens - but he has to try. He owes his brother that much.

"Man, I love this song," is all Dean exclaims and then proceeds onto turning up the radio to sing along to the lyrics of a song which Sam knows Dean hates.

Sam bites the inside of his cheek in his attempt to stop himself from tearing up, turns his glance to the window - the sky is too grey today - and rests his forehead against the cold glass, letting the lyrics of the lame song push him deeper into his thoughts.

When they hit a motel and enter the room, Dean bluntly resists his brother's attempts of patching him up. But Sam is bigger and determined to have his way and soon has Dean sitting on the bed. As Sam tugs his brother's shirt over his head, his knuckles brushing over the soft skin of his stomach and chest, Dean doesn't meet his eyes.

Sam kneels between Dean's legs, hands working carefully and tenderly as he picks out the rock salt that's holed up inside his brother's chest. He feels Dean lean into his touch and he perks up, letting his brother throw his own wood and oil into the small spark of hope that's slowly igniting into Sam's breast.

But as soon as he withdraws his fingers, Dean jerks, as though he snaps out of a trance, and moves away with a mumbled, half-hearted "thanks" and Sam thinks that it would have hurt less if he had said nothing at all.

When both of them are showered and fed, Sam decides that he has a bigger chance of making his brother see - Dean with a full stomach is much more cooperative than hungry Dean. He snaps the laptop closed and chances a glance to the other side of the table, where his brother is sitting, fingering the label of his beer with his thumb absent-mindedly. He's stiff, holding himself as far from Sam as possible, his legs folded under his chair in order to avoid any contact and Sam feels a sharp jab of pain on his chest that he doesn't want to pay any attention to.

"I'm gonna hit the bed," he says softly, standing up.

Dean doesn't lift his eyes from his beer as he nods.

"Are you coming?" Sam tries again, his voice hesitant and tentative and small.

Dean hesitates and Sam feels the storm coming - the refusal and the walking away and the door closing behind and the loneliness - but then his brother nods. "Yeah."

Sam is relieved - _God_, so relieved - because bed means contact and contact means comfort to both of them. He can barely hide his grin as he flicks off the lights, heads to the bed and scoots to one side to make room for Dean.

Except that Dean isn't coming and Sam can't see much in the sudden dark. He hears fumbling and rustling and he narrows his eyes in an attempt to discern what's happening.

And then it hits him.

Dean is coming to bed, alright. Just not _their _bed. He's using the other one.

Sam hears his breath getting hitched as something cold and white flashes inside him - it's not anger, this time; it's pure, raw _pain _- and he clutches the sheets under him hard with his fingers.

"Dean. What. What are you doing?" He knows his voice is desperate but can't find it in him to care.

He can see clearly now that his eyes have adjusted, but he asks anyway.

Dean buries himself deep into his mattress, a hand under his pillow, another one awkwardly playing with a loose thread of his blanket, his back facing Sam.

"I'm going to bed, genius," Dean says and his words would have been light and nonchalant if it weren't for how raucous and small his voice is.

"That's not your bed," Sam chokes out, his throat constricting dangerously. Because it _isn't _his bed. Sam may not have nightmares anymore but that doesn't mean he doesn't need his brother. He needs to feel the reassuring weight next to him. He can't sleep, not without Dean, not without his skin being scraped by Dean's stubble and his chest breathing against his brother's back. Not without Dean's scent wash over him as he buries his nose into his hair. And he knows he's not the only one.

Dean doesn't answer, but Sam sees the outline of his temple twitch as he swallows.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I really am," Sam pleads. He feels his gut tightening, his blood running with more difficulty inside his veins and he knows it's not only the guilt, not only the hurt - it's also the fear. Fear that he's losing Dean. "I'm so sorry."

Dean doesn't move, but when he answers, his voice is softer. "I just need my space for tonight, Sam. Go to sleep."

Sam isn't feeling any less worried, but lets it go, because, if Dean keeps to his word, this is clearly temporary. Hopefully.

They lay stiff and awake, unable to get any sleep and Sam wonders if twin beds have always been that big and empty and cold. He stares at the ceiling, dark and hanging over his head, and wonders.

"That psychologist I went to earlier today," Sam murmurs. "He asked me how I feel about my big brother."

He doesn't know why he's saying this, especially when he knows that Dean will not stop with the chick jokes when he finally gives in, but he wants his brother to hear it. Dean doesn't say anything but Sam knows he isn't sleeping - his shoulders are too tense, his breathing too quick - and he's not willing to continue the story unless Dean says something.

There's a moment of silence and Sam waits because he knows his brother will bite eventually.

Sure enough, Dean doesn't disappoint. "And?"

"I said you're everything," Sam says simply, shrugging.

Dean doesn't come to bed that night - stubborn bastard - but, after a while, he turns on his side to face Sam and mutters, "So are you getting me a ring?"

Sam laughs in relief and turns on his side too.

They talk till the early hours of the morning and fall asleep facing each other.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Silence (Scarecrow)**

"Dude, you're _crushing _me!"

"That's 'cause you've taken up all the room! Scoot over!"

"Scoot over _where_, Sam? In case you haven't noticed, we're not exactly sleeping in a five-star hotel here!"

The Impala is shaking so hard as Sam and Dean try to find a comfortable position to sleep at the back seat that Dean is afraid it might fall apart. He should never have suggested it in the first place - sleeping in the car, _God _- but he'd be damned before he'd let himself and his brother crash into that town full of l_et-the-fucking-scarecrow-skin-you-alive-cause-we-need-our-crops_ bastards. Now, as he struggles to fit into the edge of the backseat with Sam plastered to his back, he wishes he had been able to chance it.

It was different when they were younger, when Sammy was still small enough to sleep sprawled over Dean's chest. But now his brother is a freaking giant that can hardly fit inside the crammed space even with his legs folded.

"If I fall down, I swear-"

"I'm not gonna let you fall down, Dean," Sam promises as both of them finally settle into the most comfortable angle they can find. The arm that is wrapped around Dean's chest tightens and a long leg slithers up to coil around his hip, as if to emphasize Sam's words.

Dean relaxes against his brother's chest, pushes his back as deep into it as the space of the Impala allows him to and wills himself to slacken his shoulders. He trails his own hand up his chest to wrap it around his brother's wrist. It's not very different from their usual sleeping arrangements anyway and Dean doesn't want to complain too much because half a day ago he was saying goodbye to his brother and now he's feeling his soft lips move slightly against the nape of his neck and, _fuck_, how could anyone complain about _that_? That's a change Dean can deal with, if it means he gets to keep Sammy.

"You stink," Sam teases but, despite his words, buries his face deeper into Dean, nuzzles onto the crook of his neck.

"Yeah, well, I was hunting down a pagan serial-killer scarecrow all day, what's _your _excuse?"

Sam chuckles and his warm breath caresses the side of Dean's neck. Dean shudders involuntarily and closes his eyes as he feels his brother's mouth placing a tender kiss on the skin just under his jaw and he's suddenly consumed with the urge to turn around and do the same, just with more fierceness. And he'd do it, if it weren't for how it's fucking impossible because of the small space between them.

Fuck, sleeping in the car sucks.

"I was saving your ass," Sam replies, his answer muffled against Dean's flesh.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that."

Silence falls cozily around them, enveloping them like a soft blanket but Dean doesn't want to close his eyes. A cricket hums steadily outside and Sam's breath fans relaxingly against him, but Dean is too tense to get a wink. Part of him is worried that one of the townsfolk might find the Impala where it's hidden behind some bushes miles away from them or that the scarecrow might appear any moment or that Sammy might decide that he wants to go away again.

Somehow, it's that last one that's making his insides sink.

"I'm not going anywhere, Dean," Sam whispers and Dean freezes - because, fuck, how does that kid know _everything_? - and swallows. "I promised you."

Dean feels something warm and nice and wing-like flutter inside his stomach but he doesn't know what it is (probably the damned apple pie) so he doesn't think about it.

When silence falls again, Dean manages to doze off for a few hours, with Sam's arms around him.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter 12: Salvation (Faith)**_

Dean is sleeping.

Sam has been sitting on the plastic and torn white chair of the hospital for what seems to be all night. He feels his back hurting terribly, the knots on his neck getting tighter and tighter as each second ticks by; his legs have gone numb from where they're awkwardly folded beneath him and his left hand throbs as it is stretched out before him to clasp Dean's.

He couldn't care less.

His brother is pale and vulnerable-looking. The skin around his eyes and face looks thin, like old scroll paper. Sam is afraid to touch it, afraid that it may get torn apart under the slight pressure of his fingertips, yet there's a part of him that screams for him to run his hands over Dean's closed eyelids, over his symmetrical, cracked lips and the sharp bone of his collarbone, to trace the elegant jawline and feel the stubble scrap his palm. There's a part of him that screams he will never get another chance.

_Dean is dying._

Hours have passed since the doctors broke the news to him, but it doesn't seem any less real or any less painful. If anything, the realization is crushing him with the momentum of an oncoming train. He feels the collision against his chest and he gets thrown in the air with the impetus and force, but he doesn't fall. Not yet. He's hovering, hanging and trembling there, in mid-air, with an aching body that can hardly sustain his imprisoned screams and he's waiting. Waiting to drop down into a heap of mangled flesh and broken bones the minute Dean stops breathing.

When Dean wakes up at the crack of dawn, he finds Sam kneeling by the bed, his left hand laced with his and his right one stroking his hair. Sam feels rather than sees his brother's eyes travelling over his face - taking in everything while he still can - and he mans himself up enough to look straight into them.

Even their vibrant green is now fading - blurry and hazy, it can still make Sam drown in it.

"I'm still here, Sammy," Dean rasps, voice dry and small. "Don't mourn me before my time."

"I'm not mourning you period," Sam rasps back. "I'm saving you."

And he means it. Yes, he's scared now and every time his heart is beating, he feels the pain and fear pump inside his veins in the rhythm of his blood, but he's not going to let his brother die. This life is hard and merciless and you never get what you want, but Sam is sure as hell fighting with tooth and nail to hang on to what he's already got.

"I know you'll try," Dean says in a voice that sounds like sandpaper scrapping against wood. "But it's okay if you don't manage it in the end, man. I won't get mad."

He says those last words with a laugh and a gleam in his lifeless eyes and Sam can't help but smile. His brother isn't usually that talkative and Sam knows it's the drugs but he's willing to use this chance while it still lasts.

"I know you're afraid, Dean."

"Of dying? Nah, not really. It's salvation," Dean murmurs softly and sleepily and Sam knows he's about to drift off again. "I'm more afraid of leaving you behind alone, Sammy."

Sam tries hard not to choke on the lump that bobs up and down inside his throat. His chest constricts and shrinks and he's left battling for breath. Dean, always Dean - always worrying and fretting over his little brother, even with one foot in the grave.

As Dean's eyelids flutter close again, eyelashes curled and long, too black against his pale skin, Sam leans down to press his forehead against his brother's and decides.

_He _will be Dean's salvation.

* * *

**A/N: I just want to thank all of you guys for reading this story. It means a lot to me that there are people out there who want to read my stuff. You guys make my day a little bit brighter! :)I hope you have enjoyed it so far, more chapters to come!**

**And please, please, _please_, review? Pretty please?**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Scattered (Route 666)**

It's not like Sam doesn't envy the way Dean's looking at her. It's not like he isn't feeling betrayed and hurt and a whole new level of angry. It's not like he doesn't want to take that promise (the one that was made long ago, when Sam and Dean were too young to understand it: _you, only you, always you_) and just rub it all over his brother's face.

He does. He is. He does.

It's just that he can't show it, can't stand to let it all out, let it be real. His selfishness and anger and jealousy and guilt. And, _God_, the confusion; it just makes it all worse, because he doesn't know how to explain it, doesn't know why he's feeling what he's feeling, doesn't know why he can't let his brother have one spark of happiness where he can find it.

It wouldn't be the first time anyway. Dean always screws around with half the chicks between here and the other side of the world and, sure, maybe it kind of annoyed Sam a bit (they have a certain job, dammit, and Dean needs to be focused on it) but never on _that _level. Because what he's going through right now? It's not plain annoyance. It's pure, raw pain and betrayal and hurt and he doesn't know where it comes from.

Maybe it's because the other girls never meant anything. But Cassie. Dean _loves _her. A lot, that much is obvious and Sam knows it sounds selfish but he doesn't want to compete for that love. He wants Dean for himself, all of him, whole and complete and not seperated and scattered and divided to the places he's left a piece of his heart at.

Part of him - though acting happy and amused - tries to weigh Dean's feelings for the girl. Tries to count and understand how much she means to him. He can't ask directly, not without Dean understanding, so he throws little innuendos around ("_What's interesting is you guys never really look at each other at the same time. You look at her when she's not looking, she checks you out when you look away_." and "_Dean, what is going on between you two?_" and "_You loved her._")

Dean never actually answers, of course, which makes it worse because his silence confirms Sam's fears.

He tries not to think too much about it, tries not to _feel _too much and he succeeds, for a while. And then he becomes reasonable and actually happy that Dean, at least, found his anchor, no matter how temporary holding onto it is.

But then he catches Dean looking at her - eyelids heavy, eyelashes hiding the most vibrant green behind black stripes, eyebrows down - and he feels this something clawing and scratching around in his chest and suddenly all he wants is to run out of the room.

He is alone in the motel now, tossing and turning around in the sheets with nothing but his burning thoughts to warm him up for the night. It's four freaking am but he knows that trying to sleep is pointless, Dean is not with him and he bitterly thinks that Cassie, at least, will have one hell of a night with his brother.

When the sirens flash outside his window, casting blue and red light on his walls, Sam is relieved - _relieved _- because it means that he can finally draw away Dean from her.

He dresses up hastily, reaches the scene of the crime and finds out that the Mayor is dead. Then he speed-dials Dean, putting as much strenght and anger on the buttons as his phone can take and waits for him to answer.

_"Yeah?"_

His voice is soft and rough - Sam doesn't want to think why - and he sounds unwilling to talk.

Well, too bad because Sam suddenly feels very talkative.

"While you were too busy not keeping it in your pants, the Mayor was murdered," he says and even he can hear the annoyance in his voice. "Same way. Car-crash. No tracks."

There's a startled pause and Sam wonders what Dean is most surprised at; his tone or the news.

_"You're kidding!"_

"No, Dean, I'm not kidding. You see, we're in a job , and I'm actually _doing _it, so you better get your ass over here."

There's a bigger pause now, accompanied by rustling and movement, and Sam can almost picture Dean putting on his pants and moving to the next room to talk without risking Cassie hearing him.

_"Dude, what's up with you?"_

"Nothing's up with me," he replies, less intensely this time, because he doesn't really know. "Just. Didn't sleep well is all." _Didn't sleep at all._

He can hear Dean breathing heavily on the other side of the phone, can almost hear him feeding his guilt and raising it into a monster big enough to totally consume him.

Sam feels his own guilt monster growing up inch by inch.

_"I'm sorry, Sammy."_

Dean sounds like he doesn't know what he's apologizing for. Sam doesn't either. But, somehow, someway, the genuine apology makes him feel a little bit better and lighter inside.

"It's okay, Dean," he says, though it's not. "Just. Just come over to me, alright?"

Dean sighs softly and murmurs a small "_don't I always?_" before shutting the line.

As he hangs up, fingers pressing the buttons more softly now, Sam can't help but think that maybe _he_'s the one scattered around this time.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Chapter 14: Desperation (Nightmare)**_

Dean feels the panic going off inside him like a bomb he didn't know was there and he freezes for the fraction of a second. Because one minute Sammy is talking to him, stable and quiet, and the next he's on the floor with his hands clasping his temples so hard that his knuckles have turned white.

And Dean doesn't know what to do - fuck, he doesn't even know what's _happening_. And, just like every time Sam's in danger, he has a sudden flash of a burning nursery, an order from his father, and a warm, crying bundle in his arms, the smell of burning flesh and then his feet touching wet and freshly-cut grass and the only thing he can think of is _Sam_.

Sam. Sam. _Sam_.

He shoots up from his bed with the force of a struggling animal that was just released from its chain.

Sam is writhing on the floor when Dean finally reaches him. He's thrashing about, body spasming like a mechanical toy with a broken string and he's fucking screaming and all Dean can do is shout his brother's name, covering his cries with his own.

"_Sam?_ Hey!" He kneels down and his hands automatically shoot up to grab Sam's arms - _God_, Sammy is burning. "Hey, hey! What's going on! Talk to me!"

Sam reaches out with a hand and takes hold of Dean's collar, fingers clawing as if he's the only thing that can keep him from drowning and Dean scoots closer, hoping that his presence will be enough to draw Sammy out of his nightmare (it's always been, after all.) Dean's throat constricts dangerously and he's having trouble speaking, but he's familiar with the sensation - it always emerges when he's around Sam and something bad happens - and he tries to speak through the thickness that has formed on the walls of his gullet.

"Sam, Sammy, _please_. Please, man, c'mon."

Dean's voice is agonized and his chest is burning as if acid has dripped on it. His right hand moves up slowly to cup Sam's cheek - thumb brushing his cheekbone, fingers spread over his temple and jaw. But Sam's eyes are unfocused and he's making the most anguished noises and there's no sign he's even hearing him.

Dean doesn't care - he will shout himself hoarse if there is the slightest of chances to pull Sam out of whatever he's sinking into.

His left hand is on Sam's hip, as if he's manually trying to hold him on the surface, and the bare skin that manages to pick under his brother's shirt trembles against his calloused fingertips.

"_Sammy._" It's a broken, wretched whisper, hoarse with all the emotion that boils into Dean's stomach and soaked with fear. It's _desperate_.

When Sam finally comes around, sucking in a rugged breath that sounds a lot like '_Dean'_, relief and solace wash all over him, burying him in a numbing emotion.

"Sammy, oh, thank God," he breathes, fingers sliding on Sam's chest to grip on his blue shirt in an attempt to keep him there with him.

"It's happening again," Sam hisses as soon as he can talk. "Something's gunna kill Roger Miller."

"You had a vision?" Dean asks. His brother's eyes are searching for his and Dean ducks in an attempt to help Sam find them. "_Awake_?"

Dean isn't that freaked out with the psychic thing itself. He's more freaked out with the fact that his brother will have to go through _this _every time it happens. He's more freaked out with the fact that the fear and worry will cling to _him _like cologne every time it happens.

"Yeah. Yeah, we have to find him." Sam nods - his hand is still grasping Dean's collar, knuckles brushing the skin under his jaw and, God, Dean finds it hard to breathe normally - and struggles, trying to get out of the cage Dean has made with his arms.

Dean locks his muscles into place.

Sam struggles harder.

"_Move_, Dean! We gotta go!"

"Hold on! Just hold on just a sec, alright?" Dean shouts back, his palms pushing his brother back gently from where they're resting on Sam's chest.

Sam looks at Dean and probably sees something in his stance or in the way the muscle on his cheek twitches and he stops his efforts of escaping.

"You. _Gosh_, Sam," Dean murmurs softly, hands moving up to curl around the two sides of his brother's neck. "You scared the crap outta me, man."

"Dean?" When Sam speaks, it sounds like a caress. It's soft and tentative and almost as touching as a grazing of fingers.

Dean chokes on the lump that has settled on his throat and tilts his head forward, burying it in the place between Sam's jaw and collarbone. He breathes in deeply. Breathes in the sweat and the faint gunpowder and the minty-earthly smell of Sam's shampoo. Sam smells like home.

"Just. Just give me a moment."

He feels his brother nod, feels his chin brush his head and urges himself to realize that Sam is fine. He places a tender kiss on Sam's pulse - he's not usually that cuddly but, damn, a minute ago he thought Sam was having a heart-attack but now he's safe and sound and he smells _freaking good _- and nuzzles on the corner of his jaw.

He feels his brother's hand sliding up to rest on Dean's scalp and, somehow, that small contact makes something click to place, turns off the alarm that had ticked off his desperation and makes him reassured. He feels lighter - whole and complete.

So, he smacks his brother on the chest.

"Ow!"

"Go all Mr. Seizure to me like that again," he says, voice muffled from where he's speaking onto Sam's neck, "I'm gonna kick your ass. I mean it, Sam."

Sam laughs and it is the sweetest sound Dean has ever heard.


End file.
